


Debris

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence, HP: EWE, M/M, Minor Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-05
Updated: 2007-12-05
Packaged: 2018-08-24 06:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8360155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: "Looking around, he doesn’t know why he came all the way down here, to the peaceful and presently quiet ivy-overgrown ruins of Hogwarts, or why he’s here by himself while his friends are all celebrating Christmas somewhere with their families and loved ones..."





	

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** The Potterverse is JKR's, not mine.

Sitting on a pile of bricks and rubble where once a sturdy wall stood, Harry sighs.   
  
So is this it, then; the end?   
  
Yes, it must be.   
  
He has fulfilled his destiny. His entire life lies ahead of him and he's finally free to live it as he pleases.   
  
Or so everyone keeps reminding him ad nauseam.   
  
‘But what exactly _am_ I supposed to do now?’ Harry wonders with another solemn sigh as he wraps his winter cloak more tightly around himself.   
  
The painful truth of the matter is he hasn’t a clue where to even begin.   
  
The future never seemed attainable before, and certainly not particularly pleasant.   
  
Looking around, he doesn’t know why he came all the way down here, to the peaceful and presently quiet, ivy-overgrown ruins of Hogwarts, or why he’s here by himself while his friends are all celebrating Christmas somewhere with their families and loved ones.   
  
He received his fair share of invitations too, of course he did, but somehow this is where he ended up instead.   
  
He decides he must be a glutton for punishment, or just as insane as _The Daily Prophet_ would have everyone believe he is, even now, after everything that has happened.   
  
Never let it be said that scruples are something that keep Rita Skeeter awake at night.   
  
Regardless, Harry has all but stopped caring about the press attention.   
  
It doesn't bother him nearly as much now as it used to, but that still doesn’t mean he has made his peace with either the past or the present.   
  
Last year, he saved the wizarding world and countless people in it, among them even a few who, according to some, would have been better left to rot.   
  
But abandoning someone in danger isn’t something a noble hero would ever do, especially one who also happens to be an incorrigible Gryffindor and who always feels personally responsible as well as guilty for every person he fails to rescue.   
  
Snape’s death will probably haunt him forever, along with Cedric’s and Sirius’, and—   
  
Harry was powerless to save everyone, and suddenly, despite himself, his thoughts drift once more to someone else, someone who was beyond help long before Harry was even born, someone whose life might have turned out entirely different, if only—   
  
Harry blinks.   
  
Might eventually love really have changed anything; for _him_?   
  
He quickly shakes his head.   
  
Trying to fit Tom Riddle and ‘love’ into the same stream of thought is just—   
  
Perhaps someone like Luna would be willing to put faith in such a far-fetched theory, or at least consider it, but Harry, for his part, can't afford to be that innocent anymore.   
  
Love doesn't conquer all, no matter what some starry-eyed poets might claim, and Tom Riddle was a walking time bomb, born bad and destined to be evil from the very start.   
  
And yet…   
  
Harry can't stop thinking about him lately, and of the first time they met, the only time he saw the man before the man revealed himself to be the monster.   
  
Harry was still so young back then and too blind to see what was right in front of him until it was already too late, until the intriguing boy from the diary stated his true identity, and if Fawkes hadn't showed up when he did...   
  
They would have lost Ginny; Ginny, who’s engaged to Neville now, and both of them seem very happy.   
  
Another happy ending, one Harry can't possibly begrudge two of his best friends, but still he has to wonder as a painful bitterness overcomes him, ' _So, when will I finally get mine_?'   
  
Almost every night, Tom visits him in dreams.   
  
Harry never meant to find that photograph last year, amongst the remains of the Hogwarts library, and he doesn’t understand why he never threw it out or burned it, but instead held onto it as if it were some twisted keepsake or a relic of some kind.   
  
It probably is.   
  
And perhaps he does know.   
  
He's definitely a glutton for punishment.   
  
Or is there more to it than that?   
  
Why can't he stop looking at the bloody picture, he wonders?   
  
Why does he find himself drawn to those deep, mesmerising green eyes that, when he stops to consider the topic, really aren't all that different from his own?   
  
Perhaps he’s finally losing his mind.   
  
Let’s face it; that possibility was on the cards all along. Ask anyone.   
  
For some reason, he keeps recalling the memories he was shown in his sixth year.   
  
Tom as a teenager was as devious and troubled as he was handsome.   
  
Maybe, just maybe, if Tom had had a real and true friend back then, someone who genuinely cared, he—   
  
Harry grits his teeth and silently curses at his own stupidity.   
  
So there he goes again, wanting to go running head over heels after some lost cause, trying to save the doomed, and speculating about things he cannot change, not in a million years.   
  
Maybe Ron’s right. Perhaps he should date again, but that’s easier said than done.   
  
People seem to be far more interested in the hero than in the person, and then there’s also that other not so little to neglect matter that Harry prefers boys to girls.   
  
It’s a secret only Hermione shares so far, and it’s not something Harry is anywhere near ready to go public with yet.   
  
Besides, compared to some tacky exposé along the lines of ‘The Boy Who Lived and Loved To Be Queer’, perhaps a questionable fascination with the Dark Lord as a young man isn’t all that terrible a concept.   
  
Then again—   
  
Harry grits his teeth. All this musing isn’t getting him anywhere.   
  
In an attempt to clear his head, Harry gets up and walks deeper into the ruins.   
  
He's merely wandering around, with no specific destination in mind and not even an inkling of where he's heading.   
  
He descends a steep flight of surprisingly intact stairs that lead him to the dungeons, to what used to be the Slytherin section and will most likely be again once the rebuilding starts.   
  
As if in a trance, he walks to the end of the dark dingy corridor and soon he finds himself in the next one.   
  
Brushing cobwebs aside and ignoring the spider that dangles by the ceiling and then quickly scurries down the wall, off to safety, he opens another door.   
  
It leads to another corridor, one that’s light and clean and bears an eerie familiarity that makes him shiver.   
  
Harry has been here before, albeit only in a dream.   
  
He swallows the sudden lump in his throat.   
  
Something warns him that he should stop, turn back now, and not go any further or look behind the door he’s fast approaching.   
  
But when has Harry ever listened to anyone’s advice, including his own?   
  
Carefully, his hands trembling, he opens the door.   
  
The hinges don’t creak as anticipated, but the silence that follows instead is even more unsettling.   
  
He ventures inside, anxious and yet eager, as though a part of him knows this is where he should be; where he belongs.   
  
Though that makes no sense.   
  
There’s only one possibility left, he really _is_ going off his rocker.   
  
He takes a deep breath and glances around the room.   
  
It’s furbished in green and silver, not unlike the Slytherin Common Room was once upon a not that long ago.   
  
A decorated Christmas tree stands in a corner, and on a sideboard, two cups of steaming hot chocolate.   
  
And then, finally, Harry notices the tall, slim figure standing by the bookshelf.   
  
He doesn’t need to guess to know who it is.   
  
He has known it all along, deep down inside. This wasn’t over… This _isn’t_ over.   
  
It’s just different now, and he supposes he should question the reasons and specifics of all this, but he can’t.   
  
All words fail him, and he’s convinced Hermione would tell him to run ( _“Now, Harry! Before it’s too late!”_ ), but he can’t do that either.   
  
His feet won't move. He’s rooted to the spot.   
  
The young man at the other side of the room turns around, and Harry finds himself gazing into those familiar green eyes again.   
  
This is another dream, isn't it?   
  
Or did he doze off, lose his balance, slip off the rubble, fall a few feet and break his neck?   
  
Harry bites his lip, hard, and almost flinches at the ensuing pain.   
  
This is definitely no dream. He’s still here and very much alive, and he's not the only one, it seems.   
  
“Hello Harry,” Tom Riddle says with a wide smile that’s both chilling and enticing in more or less equal proportions, “I’ve been expecting you.”


End file.
